


Under the Blood Moon

by AdelineAround



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Accidental Knotting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Bottom Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Breeding, Cervix Fucking, Demons, Explicit Sex, Fast burn but it just keeps going, Halloween, Incubus Connor, Knotting, M/M, Top Hank Anderson, Vaginal Sex, Werewolf Hank Anderson, Werewolves, eventual pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27311083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelineAround/pseuds/AdelineAround
Summary: Damn him for being led by his stomach... well, sort of. Connor is an incubus, and he happily feeds off lust and sex. When his hunger brings him to Detroit, Michigan, things seem to be the norm until he meets a man- not a man- named Hank Anderson. Connor has no idea his mundane demon life is going to be flipped upside-down and tied into knots, in more ways than one.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 119





	Under the Blood Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Halloween! Happy Samhain!  
> Am I actually attempting to write a multi chapter fic this time? It must be due to the blue moon that’s occurring tonight + Daylight Savings ending + a meteor potentially buzz cutting the Earth’s atmosphere.  
> Anyway, this was inspired by my ramblings of “what if Hank was a werewolf but he didn’t know it until he xyz?” So, here we are. Hopefully, this continues to live in my brain long enough to get the ideas down onto my docs for y’all to read.

Connor clutches at his stomach. He is so, so hungry, though not in the human sense of hunger. No, he scoffs at himself. He _used_ to be human a long time ago. Not anymore. He barely remembers living his 30-odd years of life as a human on earth. He is much older, lives now as what he was always meant to be: an incubus.

He ignores his surroundings, not that there is much to the underworld. There is no food that appeals to him here at this very moment; no tasty morsels that he can pick through right now. The hunger pangs heighten as he searches the nearest pull of desire, much like a thread wisping from the Other Side in the wind, tickling his nose even when he cannot see it. Aha. Connor grasps someone’s line of want, of lust, so desperate to _get some tail_. Connor smirks; those were the human’s words, not his. He will show them some tail, guaranteed.

Using a claw to slash through the dimension of time, he climbs through the ethereal gap and steps into the reality of planet Earth.

He lets his human form crawl over him like shattered glass in reverse until it is seamless, disguising him as nothing other than a very attractive man; the man he used to be before he found his true calling. Connor snaps his fingers with a bit of crimson spark, and the tightest pair of leather pants wrap around his long, slim legs. He snaps again; a fashionable cropped top hangs mid-drift over his lithe form. Ruffling his short, curly hair, Connor finally passes his warm, caramel eyes with two fingers and allows dark kohl to line them, accentuating the depth of his irises. He smacks his plush lips, a glossy sheen springing forth over the skin. Hunger roils in his core, but there is nothing he can do with his powers that can tame it.

It’s showtime.

Where Connor stands is in front of a modest home, porch lights on and neighborhood quiet during this time of night. The scent of arousal and want wafts through the air from the house. He cocks his head; this isn’t usually the place he finds himself when searching for food. Yet here he is, hungry and uncaring really where his meal will be.

Walking up to the front door, he tries the knob a couple of times, finding it is locked and will not budge. He sighs. Even if he is an incubus, that does not mean he can walk through walls. He will just have to find another way into the home.

Investigating his other options, Connor explores the garage area, which is also under lock and key, before making his way to the side of the house. There, there is a window that leads into the kitchen area. It is wide open, supposedly to get some fresh air into an otherwise still house.

This is too easy, Connor thinks, before backing up to steady himself. He aims carefully before catapulting his body through the opening, clearing the parameters by just a smidge. But, to his dismay, Connor does not make the landing. He softens the blow of the hard kitchen floor with a tuck and roll, hoping he has not made too much noise with his entrance.

He scowls; not his most graceful act. He stands, only slightly phased by his tumble.

A growl comes from his left. Connor swings his head to see a giant canine standing guard in front of him. It’s a Saint Bernard, he recognizes. One of those massive hounds that plow through snow and carry brandy around their necks is that creature.

Connor likes dogs.

“Good… dog,” he says, albeit pathetically, as he does not know what the Saint Bernard’s name is, if he has one; some owners have the audacity to name their canine pet ‘Dog’. He holds out his fist in a gentle manner so the dog can sniff him. 

The Saint Bernard stops showing his teeth when he recognizes Connor is not a threat, taking a whiff at him before snorting and sauntering back to his dog bed in the corner of the living room. 

“That’s a good pup.” Connor whispers to the dog. His stomach clenches again, bringing his attention back to the reason why he is here in the first place. He better hurry up.

From where he stands, the house looks empty, but the strong scent of musk and sweat and need is almost overwhelming. Connor’s core rumbles. With his nose to guide him, he follows the aroma out the kitchen and down the hall until he reaches a bedroom door. This must be where his meal for the night is. Connor is down for a rut in bed. He could pretend it is romantic, something classic, or whatever his one-time partner musters up in their possibly wild imagination.

He cracks open the door to see a man in bed. Connor licks his lips as he draws closer. He admires the man’s rough face, eyebrows pulled tight as he dreams in sexual desire. The hunger in Connor’s belly swells as he takes in his silvery locks and beard; both would feel so good along Connor’s own skin. He can feel himself growing wet as his eyes trail lower, to the man’s large, bare chest that is covered in a faded tattoo. Whisking away the bed sheets without a sound, Connor discovers just how massive his partner, his prey, really is.

His mouth waters at the sight. Of course the man sleeps in the buff. Connor barely has the will not to grab the man’s gigantic, hard dick and fuck himself with it until he is satisfied and messy. But he refrains from doing so right away, because Connor still has to follow the incubi rules and “eat” his meal properly.

Tearing his clothes away, Connor finds no need for frillage of any kind. Then, he is channeling into the man’s dream, climbing onto the mattress so he can start manipulating the fantasy...

* * *

_Hank is at Jimmy’s, the usual bar he likes to hit up when he cannot seem to get a buzz. Usually, Jimmy knows his preferences best and serves him the stuff Hank knows will give him a hangover the next day._

_Maybe his tolerance is too high, he surmises, or maybe it is because the other bars always water down their alcohol to make the bottles on the shelves last a little longer. Either way, Hank rarely gets drunk enough for his liking._

_He is on his fourth shot of whiskey when his gut stirs. No, the feeling is lower, down in his groin. He loves alcohol because it makes him exhausted and sad and riled and horny; makes him feel all sorts of things that he normally ignores deciphering on a daily basis. His cock pulses against his jeans, beginning to grow within its confines. Turning from the bar counter, he surveys the area for someone meeting his tastes._

_He scans the room lazily, partially addled from the booze. No one seems to pay attention to him in particular, but it is as if he feels eyes on him, watching him attentively._

The bar starts to fade into his room, his dark bedroom, where the most handsome face he has ever seen stares down at him. Brown hair and deep eyes, smatterings of light freckles along smooth, creamy skin. The person is gorgeous, godly even. He cannot help but to groan when he feels two silky soft legs straddle his naked hips.

“What’s your name?” he hears the man above him ask.

His throat feels like parchment paper when he speaks, “Hank.”

The man above him hums, rolling his name off his tongue like it is sweet like honey, “Okay, Hank. You smell so good.”

“Is this a dream?” Hank is the one to ask questions now, his cheeks flushing red.

His breath hitches when Connor undulates his bare- oh god, this man is nude in his bed- hips into Hank’s standing cock. Arousal burns in his veins, flowing where he and Connor are skin to skin. It almost feels like it is being siphoned from him there.

Connor gazes at him with hooded eyes, so sultry and tempting. “It’s whatever you want it to be, Hank. _I’m_ whatever you want me to be.”

Hank blows hot breath from the gap between his incisors. His cock throbs at Connor’s statement; a good sign that Connor takes as permission to continue. He mewls quietly as he feeds on the lust the man is emitting in strong waves. He has never met a human with such a powerful scent like this before, he thinks. The smell encompasses him, makes him slightly dizzy with the anticipation to fuck. No other human has made him feel like this. Maybe other, more supernatural partners yes, but not a human. It is a little strange, but not enough to throw him off the potential of having his hunger satiated.

Big hands wrapping around his waist catch Connor off guard, snapping him out of his brooding. He grins when Hank feels up the plane of his stomach, firm muscles under milky, unmarred skin.

“‘M starving,” he says mindlessly, deep eyes staring Hank down. He leans down to capture Hank’s sleep-dry lips with his own.

Lips move over each other in haste. It does not take too long for teeth to come out and play, and Connor uses a nibble to tease Hank’s bottom lip. The man growls, opening his mouth to greet Connor’s tongue as it slithers out to meet his own. Searing flames burn bright in their bellies as they explore each other’s hot caverns, fighting for dominance. Hank groans into the kiss, pushing away when he loses breath, lungs searching desperately for much needed oxygen.

Connor’s pupils are as big as dinner plates, so wide that it threatens to swallow the honeyed brown irises that Hank can barely make out in the dim light of his bedroom. He huffs, like he can sober himself up in what he thinks is a dream. Connor stops himself from snorting. He just wants to _eat_ , not push his food around on the plate, so to speak. He needs to continue. He needs more.

“Won’t you feed me, Hank?” Connor asks sweetly, his words dripping with sultry, seductive tones.

He bats his long, dark eyelashes at the man, smiling wolfishly when he feels Hank’s cock twitch in earnest. It bobs upwards, slapping Connor’s pelvis, before leaning upon the man’s voluptuous belly; a little humor in the midst of everything. Connor arches his back as warmth spreads over his body. He feels himself getting wetter by the second. He cannot wait for Hank to impale him with that thick cock; take him for a ride.

Hank does not reply verbally, instead shoving Connor’s hips down over his so they can grind against each other. Connor knows there will be no foreplay here. Hank is too far gone for that right now. So, the incubus opts for the next best thing, giving into what Hank wants for just a little while. They slip and slide over one another, moaning softly every time the bulbous head of Hank’s cock catches on Connor’s wanting hole.

It tickles, sort of, Connor finds. But that does not stop him from trying to get Hank to enter him. He lowers his body whenever the man’s cock is poised at his entrance, as if he is about to take Hank into himself, only to be left high and dry when Hank does not catch his drift; he does not enter him yet.

As if Connor had any patience, it begins to wear thin when several minutes pass by. He cannot deny it feels amazing when Hank glides over the nub that sits prominently above his hole, but he did not come here to get off that way. He wants Hank inside him, wrecking his insides like a primal beast that humans can only fantasize being.

“No, no, honey,” Connor warns when Hank’s grunts become breathier, heavier like he is driving towards the rapture of orgasm. He peels himself away from Hank with slight disappointment. “Can you hold off for me?” 

Hank’s face fixes into a frown, but Connor grants him a magnificent view as he gets into place. The incubus turns around on all fours, lowering himself so his face rests against the bed. His arms brace his balance as he presents his ass to Hank, his dripping folds waiting to be parted and filled.

“In me, Hank. Do it.” Connor stares up at Hank as the man shuffles to his knees, closing in on him. His libido is so robust that Connor can taste it on his tongue. He wants it. He wants it all.

“It won’t fit,” Hank says, an underlying sadness lacing his gruff voice. He is so close, yet so far away from where Connor wants him to be.

Connor screws up his face. He has heard that before, and it has never stopped him from having sex.

“It will.”

“No, I’m too big, and you’re too small.” Hank shakes his head again. “There’s something wrong with me. I can’t…”

There has got to be something to unpack with _that_ statement. If he were not so famished, Connor would have coaxed Hank, told him that he is just perfect; really mean it, too. But Connor will have to deal with it at another time. Right now, he needs the man’s cock. Naturally defiant, as demons are wont to be, he lets his seduction run free as he says, “Yes, you can. I know you want to. Fuck me, Hank. Now.”

That gets Hank to obey him.

Connor gasps in delight when Hank lines himself up, scooping up some of his slick to perfunctorily lubricate his cock, not that Connor cannot take Hank dry. He is absolutely drenched. He reaches back with one hand, spreading himself haphazardly for the man.

The fear and anxiety drains from the man’s body as lust replaces it, shrouding them in a thick, invisible fog. He hears Hank snicker, “Greedy.” Connor dares his ears to turn pink at that.

“Always,” he responds breathlessly. “Now give me-”

He does not need to finish his sentence. Hank is finally, _finally_ enters him. It is so, so tight, like Hank might actually not fit all the way. The man stretches him like no other, splitting him so wide that, if he were mortal himself, he is sure he would be seriously injured.

Three things spark within Connor as Hank takes him for the first time, inching his way with careful thrusts to the hilt. The first is that pleasure washes over him, the first time since last week, when he had fed on Wednesday. Second, Hank feels absolutely incredible in him, the fit tighter than any other time he has ever had with a human or, well… which brings him to the third point:

Hank is, by all means, _not_ a human being.

Can’t be, in fact, because Connor knows what humans feel, taste, smell, and look like. Hank fits none of those, save for his appearance. He is so much more; so otherworldly that Connor feels as though that he should have known better from the get-go. But even as he feels like bashing his head against a wall for overseeing something so prominent, the incubus’ body knows no boundaries.

Pleasure like lightning strikes through his very being when Hank sheathes his gigantic girth within Connor. Connor’s lips part on a wail as the _not-human_ sublimates every thought racing through his brain, unable to do anything more than to be present and take what Hank has to offer him. Even the doubt, the shame, that tells Connor that _he_ should be the one in control bleeds away into a mere fleeting thought as Hank finally humps his way to the hilt.

“Fuuuck,” he hears Hank swear behind him.

Connor, though he does not need to breathe oxygen, allows himself to push air in and out of his lungs, struggling to accommodate Hank’s cock. He should not be having such a problem, but Hank is exceptionally large compared to him. And he just keeps getting bigger, the more Connor hones in on Hank’s member splitting him open. But, oh, he is not complaining.

His voice is barely above a whisper, “Move.”

To Connor’s relief, Hank listens to him and obeys. He slides out with a hiss, until just the head of his cock remains inside Connor. Then, with a twist of his hips, Hank is slamming in without so much as a moment of hesitation. The incubus sucks in a sharp gasp, wanton feeding his demonic soul. Hank draws halfway out of him, then thrusts again. Connor moans loudly, hips jerking back to meet Hank’s hips. Oh yes, that’s perfect.

Slower than Connor would like, Hank builds a rhythm that is both too much and not enough. Connor’s elbows collapse on him, leaving his cheek to drag against the sheets as Hank fucks him rougher. With each pull out, Connor can feel his hole clenching in an attempt to bring Hank back, only to get what it wants a second later. It feels so good. Connor tries not to think about how inhuman his partner is and focuses on taking pleasure for himself. He reaches between his sopping folds.

“No.” Hank’s voice isn’t so much as rasping as it is _growling_ at Connor. His sturdy hips pound the incubus harder, hitting something so deep that Connor screams in surprise. This time, he whines high and tight, but puts his hands back on the bed, getting the message that Hank will not allow him to touch himself right now. The man leans over him then, belly flush against the arch of Connor’s spine, “That’s a good boy.”

Connor’s vision goes a little hazy around the edges as Hank rams into the same place again, located so deep that it brings sparks of white behind his eyelids. They fit perfectly, like two puzzle pieces coming together. Hank’s weight on him is just the right amount of pressure to keep him from moving too much, and he lets himself succumb to Hank.

In, out, in, out. Connor gets swept up in the motion, the cacophony of sounds that comes from, well, everything. Hank’s heavy balls slap against his skin on every thrust. He barely has any control of his own voice as Hank shoves in and wrecks his innermost anatomy, unadulterated moans peppering the air. The slide and squelch of Hank fucking him keeps the flush on both their faces apparent. It is chaos, and yet it is exactly what Connor wants; what Hank wants, he can discern from the not-human’s energy signature and lust that the incubus desperately feeds on.

Oh, fuck, he hisses under his breath. The more ramped up Hank gets, it is almost as if he is getting larger, his dick pulling Connor apart a little more with each drive in. Something is off; something is wrong. It is like Hank is _swelling_ near the middle to base of his cock, Connor thinks. None of his other meals during his lifetime ever did this, at least not in the form of a human. In his head, he makes a few guesses as to what Hank could be, but those thoughts require brain power that he does not have right now. The stretch is not painful, but he digs the balls of his feet into the mattress, his nails like pins holding together fabric in the sheets. He rides each sensation of pleasure, squashing down the uncertainty of what will happen when they reach climax.

But, oh, he and Hank are not going to last long. Hank is not going nearly as deep as he was just minutes ago, instead rutting like a canine, pounding Connor’s hole shallowly. The pressure is dizzying. Connor has never felt so delirious before, but he embraces it, living in the moment.

Just then, a loud yell rips from Hank’s throat. It does not sound human at all, like Hank is using different, more animal vocal cords instead of his own he uses to talk with. Connor’s eyes snap open, stomach dropping as if he is on a roller coaster going downhill. Hank’s teeth latch onto the junction between his neck and shoulder, biting into the meat of it with so much force that Connor cries out at the sudden sharp pain. Those teeth, flat not unlike most humans, do not make much more than an indent in his skin, but the shock is enough to bring Connor over the edge.

And topple over the edge he does. Connor does not remember more than sucking in a clipped gasp of oxygen before he is coming, shaking apart like a mountain through an earthquake. Hues of blue and red and purples all swirl around behind his eyes, the color of snow blowing his mind like a nuclear bomb. The intense feeling of pins and needles tingle throughout his limbs, rendering them useless as he collapses onto the bed beneath him. Hot, fire hot warmth spreads through the lower half of his body, crawling towards the edges of his orgasmic plane until it drips over the edge and leaks over the inside of his thighs.

It is ridiculous, Connor surmises, that he has to catch his breath when he does not need to breathe. By the time he is able to ride out the afterglow, Hank is still on him, smothering him like a bear about to hibernate. Not a bear, he thinks, not a human. The not-human yawns in the crook of Connor’s neck, sleep trying to pull his eyes shut.

“Don’t go unconscious on me yet,” Connor sighs. The inklings of soreness are beginning to reside in his hips, and Hank’s cock is still in him. “Hank, are you listening to me?”

“‘nnrh.” Hank makes a sound, but proceeds to ignore the incubus.

Connor rolls his eyes, his access to sass granted when he is not being fucked within an inch of his life. 

Satiated and fully recharged, Connor finds the strength to wriggle out of Hank’s grasp. He stands, stifling a whimper when his lower back twinges. He has rarely ever felt sore after a romp. Then again, there has rarely been a time where his partner’s dick has ever expanded the way Hank’s did. Something niggles in the back of his mind, telling him to stay, telling him to discover more about Hank; that the not-human could bring more to the table than any other he would seek out in the near future if he left.

Connor shakes his head, stubbornness overcoming him. He has to move on. If he stayed, it could mean the potential of danger and a whole Pandora’s box of problems for the incubus. He will not follow in the footsteps of his brother-

No. Connor blocks himself from thinking about him.

He takes a nice, long look at Hank, taking in the way sleep seems to smooth out all his features. It is a shame that Connor has to leave someone as handsome as Hank. Still high from recent intimacy, Connor takes a moment to steal a kiss from Hank’s parted lips.

He summons an opening through the dimensions and steps through it with ease.

* * *

The memory of Connor’s night with Hank slowly fades from his mind as time passes. He throws himself into the duties of a low-tiered incubus, completing the most minimal of paperwork and statements that he finds Hell is dependent on just to remind everyone that the place is the complete opposite of Paradise.

As if Connor had forgotten where he belonged.

Finally, after many excruciating ticks of the clock that hangs over the filing and statement reception, Connor turns in his quota and leaves with no more than a glance at those around him. His shoes, a bold jewel blue and several inches tall in the slim heel, clack along the paved ground, careful not to snag between any cracks or potholes in a calculated and confident manner. He is not wearing much else besides the shoes, not when he knows he will need to feed again soon. Maybe he will attract the eye of someone or something roaming around these parts, even if it will only quench part of his hunger. The living still provide him more sustenance than anything down here.

But Connor chooses to keep his options open. He likes to weigh the pros and cons between each meal or snack when he is only a bit peckish. It is better than going in desperate and unknowing, he surmises. Plus, if he can tease others a little by flaunting, why would he not?

With his duties checked off his list for the time being, Connor wonders if he should take a trip back to earth and wreak a little havoc there. After all, there is not much to do down in Hell for him; he is not the assigned type to punish the poor, unfortunate souls that reside in the catacomb-like chambers beneath his feet.

Maybe he can get a bite, figuratively, on Earth too. Finding an empty spot near one of the entrance gates to Hell, Connor rakes his nails through the air to open it enough for his figure. Then, with practiced ease, he slides through the rip to emerge on the streets of bustling Detroit.

Rather, Connor steps into an alleyway in Detroit, Michigan. He thanks his directional skills to aid him some privacy while he suits up to blend in with the humans.

The moon hangs low and full in the sky, which is as dark as ink this time of night. Bright, neon lights pollute the air around lit business signs. Connor can sense the buzz of people’s energy coming from within the buildings, like there are parties going on in several different places. He will have to ask someone what day it is since he does not own a watch on his person.

Still, he needs to get dressed. Connor opts for a favorite outfit; one that he wears regularly when he wants to take a stroll on Earth’s surface, but with a bit of flair. A flash of ruby bursts from his fingers as he traces from his ankle up to his hip, sliding into webs of dark fishnets around his lower limbs. His whip-thin tail from his True Form disappears, and he has half the decency to cover himself with dark-washed denim shorts that are so short that he knows it leaves little to a person’s imagination. A lacy top with the thinnest of shoulder straps wraps around his lithe torso, tying itself neatly in the front to leave Connor’s navel bare and his shorts riding low. But he is still missing something. He sighs, and a midnight sky of sheer cloth snakes itself around his shoulders in somewhat of a cardigan. He doesn’t do anything with the heels he is already wearing. In fact, his whole outfit seems to complement it and it’s many embedded sapphires. Shaking his hair out, he lets it curl into loose ringlets, taking on a neutral brown shade. He blinks his eyes, nude shimmer gracing his eyelids while his lashes plump and lengthen like he has applied mascara. Puckering his lips, they obtain a glossy, cherry red color, perfect for the nighttime occasion.

Seeing himself ready, Connor heads for the nearest facility: a club. It is the gaudiest one on the block, judging by the obnoxious purple-pink glow and strobe of the advert lights and signs. Eden Club, its business sign reads. Connor has not been to this one before.

The entrance is more of a hall than a doorway, like a foyer with people, employees, dressed in the bare minimum while enticing guests into the facility from their sci-fi-ish looking glass tube showcases. Connor weaves his way through the throngs of people loitering around there, flirting with them from behind the glass, eager to get into the club and see the real deal. He is almost there when he is stopped by a human in a suit, looking like he was designed from a brick wall.

“ID?” the brick wall so much as says rather than asks.

Shit. Connor forgot that he would be carded. Maybe he should have just teleported into the club instead of trying to waltz through security.

“Sure, sure,” Connor puts on his prettiest smile for the bouncer in front of him. He goes to search his shorts’ pockets while channeling power within his palm. He brings his closed fist up to the bouncer’s waiting hand, and opens it to conjure up a powder that clouds into the air as soon as Connor speaks, “But you can make an exception for me, can’t you?”

He watches with a smirk as he sees the light in the bouncer’s eyes change ever so slightly. He shrouds then from the public eye in a veil of deception. The brick wall of a man nods slowly. “Yes, of course,” he says finally, moving out of the way to grant Connor access. He looks at Connor as if he is not really there.

“By the way,” Connor asks, “What’s the date today?”

As if he is in a trance, the man replies, “It’s October 31st. Halloween.”

Samhain, Connor corrects in his mind. Maybe he can celebrate after finding a meal. Nevertheless delighted, he draws the veil back and strides past him without so much as a thank you and promptly enters Eden Club. A little bit of incubus magic always did the trick.

The thrum of music and party goers’ chatter resonates through Connor’s eardrums. Dancers sway on their platforms, some of them whipping out their skills by utilizing the dance pole for something more than just a thing to hold onto. Connor thrives off the sexual tension that comes off people in waves as they watch, either staring at the dancers or at Eden Club’s _companions_ , as one would put it, feeling up another for show. Some are wearing costumes while others have chosen to go with minimal cover-up.

He keeps walking, circling the area while keeping himself out of people’s notice. Everyone seems to be letting loose, having fun, indulging in their desires tonight. Connor hopes he can find someone to feed off of and fulfill his wants, too. Judging by the energy in the establishment, it should not be all that difficult for him to accomplish.

A shock of silver catches Connor’s eye when he is passing by the small, stand-alone cocktail station towards the back. He squints. No, that can’t be… of all places… Curiosity getting the better of him, Connor saunters over to the bar.

As he gets closer, the night he spent with Hank flashes in the back of his mind. What he would do to take that giant cock of Hank’s again. Even the fact that Hank is, as he found out, not human is minute enough where his body craves a second time around.

But he should not, Connor tries to scold himself internally. Not when there are so many other viable options for him to dine on in the club.

All of that is thrown out the window when he places himself at the cocktail station’s counter, leaning on it as he takes in the sight of none other than Hank himself. The man- Connor corrects himself- the _not-human_ sits quietly on his bar stool, surveying the party with icy eyes. A half-drunk glass of whiskey sits in his hand, being used like a prop rather than a drink to savor on his tongue. If it were up to Connor, whiskey would not be the only thing upon Hank’s tongue tonight.

Bad incubus, Connor thinks to himself, but smirks anyway. He is supposed to be bad. Incubi usually choose not to feed off the same person twice, but who said Connor had to follow that unspoken rule? Hank intrigues him, sparks something in Connor that no one has been able to ignite before. Oh, and the sex was amazing, too, might he add.

Never quite subtle, Connor allows his glamor to fade, letting himself be seen. At first, Hank is too busy looking out at the hustle and bustle of Eden Club’s patrons. Only when Connor shifts his weight to lean against the counter and sigh does the not-human glance his way.

Hank stares at Connor like he has seen a ghost. Of course, he would remember Connor to some degree. Connor’s face is a little difficult to forget, especially when the incubus had sexed him up so well.

“You…” he mutters like he does not believe what, who, he is seeing.

“Hm? You talking to me?” Connor winks and holds back a simper when Hank gawks in response. Let him play with Hank for a little while; Connor always finds it fun to mess with his prey, whether it be before or after taking what he needs from them. They barely remember anyway, as Connor can wipe their memory if he has enough energy to do so. Tonight is not one of those nights, if he does not choose someone to feed on.

Hank is about to reply when something catches his blue eyes suddenly. One second, he is hunched over the bar like any old patron would do. The next, Hank is leading into a sprint after a man who is swapping a discreet pouch for money with another club goer. What is this? A drug deal? Some type of intel swap that Connor has no clue about? The guy looks like a deer in headlights before dashing into the masses of party goers, like his tactic will lose Hank in the midst of bodies.

Now, this is quite unexpected. With nothing much more than curiosity on his sleeve and nothing to do, Connor decides to follow Hank and whoever he is going after.

He weaves through the crowd, finding it easier now that they have parted like the Red Sea from Hank’s big build plowing through. He catches a glimpse of both Hank and the guy as they disappear behind a door marked as “Employees Only”.

Connor is losing sight of them. He growls in mild frustration. Just how far will they run? He goes faster, putting himself into a nice jog to catch up. He whizzes past the employee lounge and out the garage doors that lead wide open to a small, fenced-in parking lot.

“Detroit Police!” Hank shouts at the guy. Connor raises both his brows. So Hank is the police, huh? He is most likely undercover, then. Well, until now. “Give it up. There’s nowhere left to run, John.”

John turns to face Hank, panicked and angry. “You’re looking in the wrong place,” the guy warns. A sharp click of a knife cuts through the air then, but Connor can see no knife gleaming in the pale moonlight. Hank’s nostrils flare, brow furrowing.

“Hands where I can see them,” he demands. His own hands are quick to pull out his gun, a police-issued pistol aimed at his suspect, but his finger is still off the trigger. It is as if he does not want to shoot. His gaze flickers towards Connor then, a shocked expression on his face. “W-what the fuck are you doing here?”

Shit, if Connor is the distraction that gets Hank killed, he would probably have to do some extensive paperwork on the incident back in Hell. And he would rather not. He should not even be here in the midst of this chaos. 

“What the fuck?” Hank does not try to mumble under his breath.

Connor does not get to think more than that though. A gruesome, terrifying snarl rises from John’s thoracic cavity. He does not sound human. When Connor looks at him again, he is no longer the waif of a guy he once was.

The unmistakable sound of cracking bone and tearing flesh reverberates through the parking lot. Everything unravels like a badly timed horror film. The fresh, hot stench of blood hits Connor dead in the nose as it rains down onto black asphalt from John’s form. Clothes bulge and rip to shreds, destroyed. Bushels of fur burst from his skin, more like a porcupine’s needles emerging than anything else. The man’s face morphs into something with a snout, teeth gnashing as they grow into sharp daggers. His eyes glow an unnatural yellow shade, bright like the sun. Muscle ripples across his body unlike anything Connor has ever seen. He has grown double the size, no longer human. Something more. Something only told in human fairytales.

A lycan, Connor’s mind provides him. John is a lycan.

John moves so fast, bounding towards Hank. Claws like knives sink into his biceps as Hank topples to the ground with John on top. Teeth are so close to Hank’s throat, ready to rip it open without a moment’s notice. 

_Bang! Bang!_

John yelps a dog-like whine, but the gunshots only slow him down. He is about to get Hank between the shoulder and neck with his teeth.

“Shit!” A feeling wells up in Connor and spills out through his swear. John will rip through Hank like a party piñata by the way things are going. He cannot watch Hank die. Not when he is far from done teasing and taking from his prey. Hank is his. Connor chooses when Hank is finished, not some mythical creature gone berserk. He will not let Hank die. Not if he can help it.

Fury takes over. One second, he is unsure of what to do, standing on the sidelines. Then, he is leaping onto John’s enormous back, pulling the lycan’s head back in the strongest chokehold he can muster. John tries to shake Connor off, but the incubus digs his heels into him and keeps his hold firm. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hank come back online, put his finger on the trigger of his gun as he aims it point blank at John’s ginormous lycan head. Then, he hesitates.

What the hell is he hesitating for? Does he not know this thing is trying to kill him?

“Do it, Hank!” Connor yells. “Do it now!”

He loses his grip on John, flung from the lycan’s body like he is nothing more than a plastic bag. He lands several feet away on his side, feeling the hard ground scratch his flesh as he skids across it. Black spots fill his vision, preventing him from seeing what is happening. He blinks away the pain, trying to get up again.

Another gunshot rings out into the night. A wounded bark is heard, not unlike a dog’s, and then scampering of dangerous claw-clad paws scamper on pavement, retreating somewhere in the darkness of the night.

Connor rubs at his eyes to get them going again. He does not bleed, but the pain from being thrown is still there. He will need a substantial meal if he wants to heal up. His chest clenches with adrenaline. If he were still human, his heart would be racing a million miles per minute.

“Fuckin’ a,” he hears Hank spit.

Connor looks at his shoes, dismayed when he finds both of his heels broken. There is no way he is going to walk in those. With a bit of honed concentration, he dissolves them into nothing, and pads over to Hank, who has not moved since John ran away. The not-human stares up at the sky, at the bright moon that so many musicians and artists have written and sung about. It hangs fuller and lower than when Connor first gazed up at it. Instead of the pale moon color, it has collected a warm hue, something orange, something red, reminding Connor of a garnet gem.

“Hank?” he says, unable to stifle a gasp when Hank looks up at him.

Hank’s gaze shines an ultra bright cyan when he turns Connor’s way, similar to John’s yellow. His hands are covered in blood, red as scarlet. The same claws John had protrude from Hank’s nail beds, deadly and dangerous as he holds his gun. His skin remains intact, but it looks dull and pale somehow. His canines have dropped into jagged V’s as he takes in big gulps of air.

“By Hell,” breathes Connor, surprised by what he is seeing. He is not talking about Hell, the place. “They can’t see you like this.”

Hank looks down at his hands. “They?” He speaks slowly, as if not truly believing what he is going through right now.

Hank locks eyes with Connor then, like a plea to fix it. Fix what? Fix anything, the incubus supposes.

“Your partner.” Connor says,“You’re police, right? You don’t work by yourself. Your partner is going to come looking for you. They can’t see you like this.” He has watched enough crime shows during his time on Earth that he has some semblance of what Hank’s job might entail.

Hank groans like he is hurt. Blood runs from the base of his new claws in rivulets.

“Come on.” Connor picks up the gun and slides it into Hank’s holster. He puts an arm around him and braces Hank. “Quickly.”

Hank finally obliges, setting himself on his feet so he and Connor can get the hell out of dodge. With not enough life force to fuel a dimension jump, Connor hobbles towards an exit door in the fencing. He takes the flimsy lock that keeps it closed and crushes it, pulling until it snaps off the door and turns to dust. Connor so much as drags Hank along the road to nowhere in particular. They need to get away from the public eye for a while.

“Where are we going? What’re you doing? Why are you here?” Hank slurs his words, chest heaving more than it should from just the brisk walk Connor has forced them into.

Connor says nothing, eyes darting towards what looks to be a dimly lit park nearest he and Hank. He sets that as his new destination, stealing glances at Hank, who is barely hanging onto his arm. He feels like fire, burning hot through his jacket. Beads of sweat travel from his forehead and get lost in his silvery beard. His eyes, no longer luminescent like they were before, are almost swallowed whole by inky pupils. His facial structure is changing, too, much like John’s did when he transformed into that _thing_ … into a lycan. Connor reaches the park, lying Hank down on a bench that overlooks a waterway. It would be hard for any humans to spot them here.

“We should be safe now,” Connor speaks, staring out at the waterfront, barely processing what just happened. He tries to devise a plan for Hank, should he need to explain himself to his partner afterwards. “When you go into work, you should tell them you ran after the suspect and lost him on the way over. He’s injured, which can explain why three bullet casings are lying on the ground. He had a knife, or something. That’s why they’ll find your blood in the parking lot, too. Are you getting this, Hank?”

He turns, only to find Hank missing from the bench. It is too quiet, silence deafening when he realizes Hank is not laying there, body curled in on itself in agony. Connor approaches the park bench, feeling it. It is still warm where Hank laid. He peers out into the park, dark and shaded with trees. He cannot see Hank, if Hank is there. Something is not right; he can feel it in his gut.

A shadow moves in Connor’s peripheral vision, but he cannot sense exactly what it is with his energy so drained. Suddenly, needle-like pricks of pain burrow into his right side as the incubus is slammed to the cement. He grunts as pain explodes from the impact of his skull to the ground. He can hardly hear the surly growl above him as he is rolled onto his back.

Connor’s vision doubles for a second until he focuses on the thing that mounts him. Keen, cerulean eyes zone in on him from a giant wolf’s face. Hands, not paws, circle his wrists and keep them pinned above his head. Fur tickles his stomach as the creature uses its weight to hold the incubus down, but the wolf’s body does not feel like a lupus’. Hard, heavy muscle and solid mass is shaped like a man’s with clothing clinging on in shreds. 

“H-hank?” Connor can recognize those blue eyes anywhere. The not-human is a _lycan_ , just like John. “Hank. Please, what are you-” His sentence is cut off when a large, floppy and wet tongue drags across his face, licking from chin to forehead in one deft swipe. Something hot and hard nudges his hip. “Oh.”

Realization hits him like a semi. Panic turns into lust and want when a surge of Hank’s desire washes over Connor through their skin-to-skin contact.

“Hank,” he whispers, his body responding to the lycan’s arousal. Like a switch being flipped, everything but the need to be fed goes out the door.

He spreads his legs, hips canting upwards to grind up into Hank’s. The lycan pants appreciatively, humping him a bit too enthusiastically. He releases Connor’s wrists to work on Connor’s shorts, but his long, unwieldy claws get in his way. A frustrated yap elicits from his vocal cords.

Though it would be exciting and sexy to have Hank slash his clothes to smitherines, Connor does not trust him enough to avoid breaking skin. “Shh, slow down,” he says. With a snap of his fingers, he absorbs the clothing until he is bare, as naked as the day he came to be. He chooses not to unleash his True Form, assuming that he might be too frightening for the lycan.

There is a confused look in Hank’s eyes, but he does not dwell on it long. An animalistic side replaces his very human concern, the beast within him ruling over Hank with ardor and sexual desire. 

“I’ve never been with a wolf before,” Connor gets his mouth to move, but this time, he does not need the power of temptation to lure Hank in.

He touches Hank’s voluptuous chest first, fingers squeezing and kneading the sturdy muscle there. When Hank growls at him, he chuckles and moves on, skimming down the lycan’s firm gut. Hank chuffs, seemingly ticklish around his belly button, which dips only half the depth compared to a human’s. Connor’s lips tug into a lilt of a smile, slowly wrapping his hand around the appendage that he is most interested in; the incubus strokes Hank’s cock once, admiring how big and long it has become. There is no doubt that it will fill Connor to the brink; brand him like a red-hot cattle rod. A hungry moan slips from his soft lips, wanting. Always wanting. He squeezes around the base, remembering how good it was when Hank swelled and plugged him up.

Hank dares to bare his fangs that gleam in the night. His large head bows when Connor twists his wrist, stroking him just right. When Hank growls, his octave growing with each second, Connor smirks and stops touching him, licking his bottom lip flirtatiously.

“Oh, no,” Connor teases, aware he is playing with fire. “Is it not just my hand you want?”

Silvery moonlight reflects for a second in Hank’s ocular orbs. The lycan snarls as an answer, teeth gnashing. Connor has to push down the fear that rises in his throat.

He hums, keeping his cool on the outside. “Well, come on then, big boy.” He digs a heel into Hank’s enormous back, pushing them together. He sighs, feeling Hank’s burning cock press against his sex. “What are you waiting for?”

There is no time for foreplay; not this time. Connor clutches Hank’s forearms as the lycan breaches his hole. His nails rake through thick, coarse fur. His eyes roll back in pure pleasure, half-lidded to watch Hank impale him fully. Connor’s walls clench around him, visceral feel-good slicing through his nerves even though they have barely begun. Oh Mephistopheles, if Hank’s and his passion is this strong, they will not last long.

For a moment, Connor expects Hank to delay, being in two minds- man and beast- presumably. But then Hank is throwing his hips forward, establishing a harsh, heavy rhythm between them. His cock batters Connor’s insides, piledriving him enough to rock the incubus back and forth across the pavement. If Connor were a human, Hank would be giving him the worst road rash right now.

Connor cannot stop himself from caressing the lycan’s face, feeling the beard turned fell that is dangerously close to terrifying, razor-like teeth. He looks at Hank’s pink, sloppy tongue that flops from his maw. What would that muscle feel like upon his body? He presses a kiss on Hank’s snout, uncaring of how wet and salty it is.

“Deeper,” he whimpers, squirming in delight when Hank does as commanded.

He hits all the way to what might be Connor’s core, hitting something that makes a spark like dynamite blow right through him, rocking him from the inside-out. Connor ululates pitifully, but locks his ankles at Hank’s lower back, keeping them together. He does not let the lycan go, pushing him to do it again. Again, again and again. His brain is so frazzled by the ecstasy, he almost does not notice as something opens up deep within him. He is about to find purchase, and he needs Hank to burst, too.

“Coming, coming,” Connor cries a little too late; Hank is already swelling inside him. His base, the knot, inflates without notice, catching along Connor’s velvety entrance and locking them there. Hank thrusts a few more times before he releases.

Hank’s howl travels through the entire park, echoed by Connor’s own drawn out moan as the two reach the end with one another. Tree leaves rustle on their branches as Connor scrabbles at the ground, palms flat as an excess of energy flows from him and into the earth and wind. His mouth hangs open, eyes clenched closed. His lower half spasms in the best of ways, feeling like he has been struck by lightning. Hank’s seed pours into him, flooding his depths with smoldering liquid. He clings to the lycan as he finds himself again, the incubus’ body shivering in exertion. He feels better than ever, more fed than he has in a long time, and he had “eaten” not too long ago.

They lay there on the cold cement, waiting for Hank’s knot to come down, leaving a trail of viscous cum along Connor’s perineum when the lycan pulls out. They are a mess, Connor knows that, with Hank a wolfman and Connor nude, wet with fluids. He would try and get a portal open so he can rest in Hell for a while, but his mind is still mush from the amazing sex he just had. Something aches in his chest when he thinks about leaving Hank alone, still in a sort of wolf form and vulnerable from his orgasm. He sighs. He cannot just up and leave yet, though he does not owe anything to the lycan. He will at least see Hank back before retreating back to his realm.

Sitting up, he turns his back to Hank and rounds his fingers, cutting into the dimension with intent. 

“Come on,” he prompts Hank. He will make them crawl if they have to. Hank blinks back at him, like he is not sure what is happening. “Do you want to stay out here and freeze instead?”

He holds out a hand like he expects the lycan to take it. He does not, but moves towards the portal. Connor pushes Hank into it without much fanfare. Fine. The incubus takes a deep breath, and steps through the opening.

**Author's Note:**

> Smash that kudos button for me like Hank smashed Connor until they came. 😌  
> For more madness, sneak-peeks and updates, find me on twit: @ra9ical


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